If I were a girl, I'd despair. The supply of good women far exceeds that of the men who deserve them.

When the immense drugged universe explodes In a cascade of unendurable colour And leaves us gasping naked, This is no more than the ectasy of chaos: Hold fast, with both hands, to that royal love Which alone, as we know certainly, restores Fragmentation into true being. Ecstasy of Chaos

This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet's destiny is to love.

As was the custom in such cases, the pear tree was charged with murder and sentenced to be uprooted and burned.

The art of poetry consists in taking the poem through draft after draft, without losing its inspirational magic: he removes everything irrelevant or distracting, and tightens up what is left. Lazy poets never carry their early drafts far enough: some even believe that virtue lies in the original doodle scrawled on the back of an envelope.

What we now call "finance" is, I hold, an intellectual perversion of what began as warm human love.

One smile relieves a heart that grieves.